Drabbles and such
by Sakura-Revolution
Summary: I have so many of these, please review, and I shall reward you with delicious candy! Not really, but I am accepting requests for drabbles... I ahve nothing better to do. Some roy, some Marta, mostly Kimblee.
1. Bathing with a madman RoyKimblee chaste

A/N: I have probably near twenty five drabbles on my computer, just things I write that can't be called stories, but that I am proud enough of that I can't bear to delete.

I have probably that much and more in various school notebooks around the house.

I figured I'd get them out, where you can read 'em, flame 'em, maybe even feed the starving author a few reviews, eh?

Anyways, I'll try to label them w/ what they contain, but no promises.

After a drunk night, (in which they discovered Kimblee did not take well to alcohol) when the shower heads had been destroyed (had Kimblee done that? Roy wondered, if he had, it was one of the few things Roy had to grudgingly appreciate from the insane Crimson.) the showers now were more like baths, having the pipes spilling into a pretty good sized basin, created when Armstrong got industrious and dug a pit, lining it in black tarp.

The military preferred at least two people share a bath, to preserve water, and by simple necessity, Roy was paired with Kimblee, the only other person in the camp who could stand water as hot as the stuff Roy opted to try and scrub his guilt away in. Roy never had to fight Kimblee though, usually anytime he wanted to bathe, Kimblee was more than happy to take the time to wash his long hair. And so, the two were forced into a relatively domestic acquaintanceship, sitting there, cooking in scalding water.

That particular night, Kimblee's eyes were shut, and his head reclined back against the edge of the hole, the tarp barely protecting him for the ever present sand. Roy studied his face for a long time, wondering what he could possibly be thinking about, his wife maybe? Roy knew he was married, had even met the frail stone eyed woman, and Kimblee's thin, amber eyed son, who had clung to his father's uniform in the crowded train station, but hadn't cried when Kimblee handed him back to his mother and gotten on the train, without a glance back.

Roy didn't understand anything about the tattooed alchemist. Kimblee didn't act like the other married solders, had no trouble killing women, and only flinched occasionally when killing the children, although he opted for much easier explosions, not the long lingering sort he favored when he had time to 'play'. Kimblee didn't moon over pictures of his family, and once had admitted he often forgot his wife's name. Roy had been horrified, but Kimblee had laughed, saying she didn't mind, so long as he didn't call her the _wrong_ name. Roy had then looked back down at the water, not wanting to think about what sort of woman wasn't insulted when he husband didn't know her name.

But tonight, they had both been silent, and Roy watched as Kimblee carefully washed his seals, observing the tremor that ran through Kimblee's body, no matter how gently he washed.

"They really that sensitive?" Roy found himself asking before he realized it, eager to break the silence, not even knowing how awkward it was to start a conversation that way, Kimblee looked up, for a moment suspicious, but then laughed.

"yeah, since I was born with them... Just had the inked when I was nineteen." he said, and was quiet again, running the soap over his sun seal, his eyes keenly watching his own skin as he washed.

"Really?" Roy said, interested despite himself… anything Kimblee spoke of took away from the images of the people he had killed that day. Kimblee nodded, then after rinsing his hands, ran them down his own cheeks, a gesture he did each time he washed them.

"Why do you do that?' Roy asked. He was usually full of inane question, and, whether from vanity, or just from pity, Kimblee answered them all.

"The skin has to be a certain texture to work its best… if my hands get too dry, they catch fire." Kimblee said shrugging. Roy nodded and sank back into the water. He knew, someday, when he was out of this damned war, he would remember this as the sanity of the whole situation…

Sanity with a madman…


	2. Maybe MartaKimblee, no romance

"I never knew you smoked." Marta observed quietly. Kimblee nodded and pulled another drag on the cigarette .

"I don't." was all he said, and Marta raised an eyebrow. She didn't like Kimblee, but the rest of Devil's nest was asleep, and she had insomnia, a condition she knew for a fact haunted Kimblee, since she had never seen him go to sleep… not once. Even when he was in his room, she could hear him whispering to himself. How Greed slept through things like that, she would never know. The fact that the two shared a room, if not a bed was disturbing, and she supposed Greed just had no trouble with sleeping in the same room as a killer.

Her train of thought ended when Kimblee stood up and walked over to an ancient Jukebox Greed had acquired, that didn't work at all. He crouched and opened its fuse box. Marta started to warn him greed didn't like his stuff touched, but two reasons stopped her, A) She knew Greed beating the hell out of Kimblee would be a pleasant sight, and B) She wanted to see if he could get it working. He messed with some wires, connected a few, then stood up and gave it a hellacious kick. Surprisingly, it began to play… Cheeseburger In Paradise. She sweat dropped.

"Uh…nice" She finally managed, and he shrugged.

"Eh." He ground out his cigarette and yawned. Marta sighed.

"You know.. I think you lost your humanity more than I did." She finally said, out of the blue, and because she could. Kimblee's usual half grin faded, and he looked thoughtful.

"Maybe." He said, and walked up the stairs. Marta wondered if he was going to sleep.


	3. Family love, devil's nest style

Greed tossed a lime into the air and caught it again, considering. The Chimera had all been terribly grateful to be released, But that alchemist… Kimblee? He had said thank you, but hadn't shown any of the blatant adoration Greed felt he so rightly deserved. Sure he was obedient, he loved missions in fact, and came back, asking nothing… but he didn't grovel, and Greed wondered why.

Greed twisted the lime in his hand, and thought about Kimblee. Greed was, well, greedy, and he wanted something from Kimblee, he just had no idea what it was he wanted… Gratitude? No, he showed that every so often, and the adoration wasn't all he wanted. He was puzzled, and began to think, observing his crew.

Marta was sharpening her knife, while Dorchette and Law played chess, Law obviously winning, since Dorchette would ponder his moves and plans aloud. And Kimblee sat in the corner of the couch, nursing a glass of something morosely, his half smile flickering every so often, ruining his brooding look. Greed looked back at the lime, and tossed it again, it was starting to feel a little soft, almost perfectly tenderized he noted, and he heard Kimble cough when he took too deep a drink from the glass.

Greed sighed and twisted the lime until he heard the skin rip a little, then dropped into the blue ceramic bowl they kept for such citrus, it made running a bar a little easier. He looked at Kimblee, still not sure what it was he wanted from him, but for now, greed decided to be content his 'family' was all behaving.

(A/N: Yo! Yeah, that was short and pointless, but I get no reviews, so why the hell not?

I planned a second part to this drabble, but with no reviews, it doesn't seem worth the time to post it…

As always, read and review, the authoress lives on reviews (and stale cheetos) )


	4. Convincing Kimblee

"Could you just relax for once?' Greed whispered into Kimblee's ear, and the alchemist was still for a moment, thinking. It was all the time Greed needed, and he slipped a hand under Kimblee's shirt. His hand felt scars, and he grinned, it seemed he was grinning more and more lately. Crimson was still for a while longer, then apparently decided to give up, and started to thrash again. Greed gave a long sigh and lifted up enough that Kimblee would only be thrashing into pillows, and not into the shield that covered all of Greed except his head… Fighting with Kimblee was a dangerous business. He waited until the alchemist's energy was burned, then lay back down, petting his cheek.

"So much trouble…" He cooed, and got a glare and a huff. Kimblee was calm again, and Greed continued his exploration of the area under the shirt. Kimblee's eyes were vaguely focused on the ceiling. Greed, had he been a more interested person, probably would have noticed the trapped look in the depths of gold, or the way Kimblee's hands were clenching and loosening with each touch. But he either didn't, or didn't care, so he kept going, and was surprised therefore when Kimblee's hand went up and connected with Greed's armored leg, sending an explosion going, blowing away most of the flesh of his thigh. Greed purred, and got a strange look from Kimblee. The two of them regarded each other for a time, the flying blood going from warm, to cold, to tacky, to stiff.

"Do it again." Greed finally whispered, and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile. But, even though he didn't cause another explosion, Greed knew he had convinced Kimblee for the night, and now this could continue. He gentle bit the Alchemist's ear, and started to remove clothes. This time, Kimblee was still, and complacent.

(A/N: I chickened out of a sex scene again… I'm so pathetic…

R/R, folks.)


	5. Can I

Can you tell em how it feels? How it feels when I rip into you, when I tear away your defenses, and make you howl and scream? Can you tell me what it is that you feel when I'm licking the defiance away from you? Who knew it pooled on the chest? Can you be the rebellious creature I first found, drenched in sweat and pain and anger? Can you ever wash the scent of the others that took you on the floor of your cell away? Can you be mine, but remain the creature that is wholly and unconditionally you? Can I lick away your anger, can I bite away your fear? Can I find the laughing child that lurks in every human heart?

And if I do, will I take its innocence away, since I never did get yours?

(A/N: Its close to a sex fic...

R/R... i need feedback on this one, i'm a little embarassed to even post it)


	6. Welcome back

Kimblee sighed, looking into the array at the pile of blood and squirming limbs. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea… trying to resurrect something he lost… of course what he wanted back had been this before, so he hadn't given a thing to get him back… will and personality was far less expensive than a soul… all he had done was gather enough flesh, present it to the gate, and here was… was…

"Greed?" he said curiously, and it blinked a filmy, purple eye at him.

"Greed." he said, convinced. He leaned down to pet a random place on it, and it began to purr. Kimblee's hand was wet with something that smelled like alchemy, and he curiously licked it, and wrinkled his nose… it tasted just like… He blushed and looked for a mouth.

He found a tongue, and figured that was close enough, and placed a bit of red stone on it. The thing sucked it into its hole (mouth?) and then stuck its tongue out for more, firmly poking Kimblee's palm. Kimblee was sure he had succeeded now. He fed it the entire handful, and sat back, watching as the flesh drew together, and started to become a body. It was vague at first, a basic shape, but slowly became more and more like the shark he had spent months with, then turned around and betrayed.

It stood, on shaking legs, and the two regarded one another. Gold met violet, Kimblee's scowl and Greed's indifference, a shark's eyebrow raised, and a demon finally looked away.

"Welcome back."

"Are you the welcoming gift?"

(A/n: Does this even make sense?

Oh well, I think I'm proud of it.)


	7. Baptisim

The night was cold, and Kimblee rubbed his arms through the coat. Greed was on another of his rants, and it was just easier to go along with it then to get into a fight. So the alchemist stood there in the cold beside a cave, at two in the morning, while Greed flipped through a book on religion like a madman reading porn.

"Okay, I think I have a basic grasp." He finally said, tossing the book over his shoulder and into a body of yellowish water behind them. The alchemist sighed.

"And why exactly is this so important to you?" The alchemist asked.

"My crew should wait for me, should I ever die, in hell." He said, and the other had to nod. It sounded pretty logical. He walked over, as Greed waded into the water. His shield was extended to everything below his collarbone, so the hand he offered was as cold as the air around them.

"I don't want it be wet… its cold." The alchemist said stubbornly. Greed laughed at him.

"Its very nice… it's a hot spring, now come on, the sooner you do this, the sooner we go back to the Devil's nest and get warm." Greed coaxed, and finally he sighed and allowed himself to be charmed into the water. To his surprise (and delight) Greed had been right, it was comfortingly warm. Greed tenderly cradled his head and let it sink under the water, holding him down. He let his eyes open, and stared up at Greed. The water was tinged yellow, and he knew it stuck. The moonlight shone down, and silluetted Greed into something resembling an angel… or a shadow of something that once had lived.

Greed brought him back up, and the shockingly cold air took away his breath and liquefied his knees, until Greed had to catch him. Suddenly the whole situation seemed hilarious… after all…

Baptized on Halloween, fully clothed, in a sulfur spring, by an embodiment of one of the Seven Deadly Sins…

Who else but Zolf Kimblee?


	8. Waiting

The boy had waited… he had waited for so long, and yet nothing . He hadn't believed it when the letters came, hadn't even let himself consider that it might be true. So he sat there, by that window where he had watched a blue clothed back depart, and waited for a ashen face and gold eyes top come back. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and his mother decayed in her bed behind him, calling out to him every so often to come sit beside her on the rusty coverlet.

Then a day came, and he was pulled from his placid home, taken to the great house his Grandparents lived in, along with his sickly mother. He was given his own room, and forbidden to go into his mother's, with vague warnings of illness, and whispers to the servants that he would 'steal the breath from her very body.'

And so he chose a new window… and he remembered everything he could, from when He was here and his mother was healthy and alive.

xoxoxox

Warm water tumbled into the bath, and the boy laughed and tried to splash him. He purred and wiggled and pulled at a long horse tail that somehow managed to slip over His thin shoulder. Invariably, He got wet, and usually soapy too, since the boy wasn't very precise with the sudsy washcloth he was given, so he could wash himself 'like a big boy'. He looked up above him, into gold eyes the same as his, and tugged at his sparse black curls, wondering if they would turn straight and grow long… like His hair did. He giggled and splashed again, as a warm hand rubbed green apple scented soap onto his bony, child back. Later in life, he would hide the bottle that once held this soap, concealing it in the bottom of his closet, and take it out when he thought he was losing his mind to draw in the memory it contained.

The boy laughed and watched the face above him spread into a slight grin, that later he would hear described as sarcastic and malicious, but it had been just another part of Him… and nothing could ever be bad about Him. He had continued to laugh as he was dried off, and dressed in his pajamas, which, maybe an hour later, would be tossed on the stairs, abandoned in favor of an old undershirt if His, that despite repeated washings always smelled a little like sulfur and night time air… this was another of the treasures hidden in the box at the bottom of the closet.

But then, then came that soft kiss placed on his eyelids, and the pet on his back. "Goodnight." "Goodnight."

And it was just another night, full of innocent, unsuspecting dreams.

xoxoxox

The boy was growing… a few more months and he would be a teenager, his mother long gone, and his life seeming to decay as her body did beneath the ground. His Grandmother… always with her strange looks of bewilderment and hatred towards him, had one day caught him staring at the pale birthmarks on his lined palms, and had sent for a man from the town… less than a week later, the boy's hands were encased in cold metal, thin screws passing through his wrists and between the bones of his hands, just the very tips of his fingers free. He had screamed for so long, feeling his voice go, but had still dragged himself to the window everyday, hoping, somewhere, that He would be looking for him… and he continued to remember.

xoxoxox

The boy had climbed into His lap while he was trying to read some book full of odd symbols, and had looked at the pages for a long time, trying to make sense of the odd pictures, until a connection was made in his two and a half year old brain.

"Story?" He inquired, looking up at the face, with its slow smile that someday would be just the same on his own face. Already thin shoulders had raised and dropped and one word.  
"Sure."

And so the boy heard a story… one about some strange god called 'equivalent exchange' who punished you and rewarded you, sometimes together. And the boy had listened, his finger twirled idly in His long hair. Then he had a question.

"Is it always that way?" he asked. He shook his head, and the hair fluttered around the boy like a veil against something beyond this moment.

"Not if you find the red stone." he said softly, and turned his palms up towards the boy. He traced the patterns, and turned his palms up towards Him. Identical marks covered both, the older hands' outlined in black, the younger just soft pinkish birthmarks.

"These find the stones?" The boy whispered and slowly His head shook no.

"Not exactly… its time for bed."

xoxoxox

Finally came the year he was fifteen, and the boy got his hands on a newspaper left by one of the maids. He had flipped through it, desperate for anything that related to Him. Finally he saw a glimmer of light, and found, in the obituary section, where once as a small child he had found something unbelievable, one more small article and picture. There, in black and white, where the eyes he saw every time he looked into the mirror, there was that smile, that hair… everything he saw day after day, in his dreams and in his reflection…

And this time, he believed them. His father was finally gone.

Rage, sorrow, pain, disbelief… everything started to push its way to his surface, and he began to beat his metal encased hands on the hearth, screaming. There was a sick noise as two screw heads gave way, and suddenly his left hand was nearly free. Methodically, he pulled and bit at the pieces of metal, until it was bloody but unhampered… then he started turned the screws to free his right.

Hours later, he stood, and for the first time in years, saw his own two hands. Suddenly… he knew what to do.

He slowly walked out the door, closing it carefully behind him, only one word on his lips.

"Grandmother…?" 


	9. Trust

Wrath shivered and looked around for something to put on. These few clothes were far too cold… or maybe it was that he himself was naturally cold. He rubbed his sleepy eyes and went padding down the hall, trying not to wake anyone. The six (all except Pride) had holed up in a rundown house, some plan was afoot, but Wrath had no idea what, and so mostly kept to himself, avoiding everyone but Sloth. But sometimes he just couldn't stay quiet enough, and Envy or Greed would give him one for those strange looks he didn't understand.

He rubbed his eyes, then looked up, surprised to have met Greed in the hall, obviously fresh from the shower, because he was in a pair of beat up pajama bottoms, and rubbing his spikes with a towel. Wrath instinctively moved back to avoid a collision, and Greed frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged and picked Wrath up. Homunculi were naturally cold skinned, but Greed was fresh from a shower, so he was warm. Wrath was worried about the strange looks, but he was soon calmed by the warmth and slept on Greed's shoulder while the shark toothed one simply carried him, if only for the slight weight… which pleased him. After all, he was greedy, and the innocence of a sleeping child was far from nothing. 


	10. Dreaming of the past

Hohenhiem had alwasy wondered what it had done when he left. He had told himself time and time again that he didn't care, that it didn't matter, but somehow, when it was late, and Trisha was asleep on his shoulder, his thoughts drifted back to that strange mockery of a child... Drifted back to the way its eyes had looked from the window, when hohenhiem fled into the night, leaving the mansion with its terrible stains and etched seals far behind... He tried to forget, tried to pretend that Envy had no emotions... but at that moment, the creature's violet cat eyes had dripped an emotion... fear.

Hohenhiem had often wondered if he should have taken it... it had been so pitifully young, not even fully formed, and with such huge eyes... It wouldn't have slowed him down... the Homuculus had always been light, it would have even been possible to tuck him into his coat and run, its cold little hands holding him arond the waist, the way he had when he recieved his first stones. He could have taken it, and now, laying in this bed with the love of his life breathing on his shoulder, and the sweet cooings of his younger sons in the other room floating through an open window, he tried hard to remember why he hadn't.

He wondered about the creature he had created. When he had left, the thing had been all wide violet eyes and a mess of Green, almost plant-like hair. Not even sure what its form was, it had been endearing and painful all at once. And as for its name... that had been such an easy decision, after it had morphed its body into an imperfect immitation of some friend of Dante's, searching for the woman's approval. Dante had ignored it, and Hohenhiem had watched as the creature slowly went back to its own form, and crept away, its body drooped and unhappy.

Hohenhiem sighed for the umpteenth time, and shut his eyes. It was just too hard to think about Envy. 


	11. Soothe me

His hand always seemed to be the wrong temperature, Roy noted dully. Right now the air around him was chilling him to the bone, yet those strange hands held a fire that he and his gloves couldn't seem to emulate. He watched the insane alchemist, as he mixed up some salve from herbs whose names made Roy's mouth feel cut and bruised. He watched, as thin, always underfed fingers mixed it, carelessly losing a drop or two to the thin layer of sand over the tent's tarp floor. Finally, he turned and started to smear it over Roy's cut leg, Roy braced himself for a burning that never came, and was almost grateful when he didn't bother to ask how it had happened. The alchemist licks the excess salve off a tattooed palm, and wipes his hands, walking to his trunk to get another bandage. Roy wonders what color he would wear if he were at home, what sort of people raised a creature like him? He's back suddenly, winding sterile bandages around Roy's leg, tightening them precisely, and humming softly, some tune that seems almost familiar. He wonders what it would sound like if he ever sang instead of humming.

Soon Roy is almost sure that salve had something in it that is making him hallucinate, because the alchemist is leaning over him, kissing the cut that he doctored a week ago, already nearly gone. His mouth is as cold as the air, but his hands are still burning. Roy wants to burn too. He wonders what it would take to get to burn beneath those hands. The mouth leaves his cut. And he directs Roy to his own bunk. He lays down, turning to he can watch him put away the oils and herbs, he watches him carefully scour the pestle and mortar with sand outside the tent flap, then put it in the trunk, along side the cutting herbs and the white, white bandages. He shuts his eyes, and for some reason dreams of bandages wrapped around roaring fires.

The next week, he's injured his hand, a bone sticking through the skin, and he prepares to go to Marcoh, stopping on an impulse to show it to him. He hums, and then walks to his trunk. Roy settles on the alchemist's bunk, and waits, knowing he can't possibly fix an injury like this with cutting herb salve and white, white bandages. He returns with the bandages and salve, but is holding a long strip of leather and a firm, thick piece of hardwood. He wraps the injury thinly and loosely with his bandage, and then puts the leather loop over it, hanging it off his injury and slipping the stick in beneath his hand. A few quick twists and Roy is muffling screams under his other hand, but then comes a coating of salve, and a firm wrapping of bandages. He whimpers as burning hands sooth his pain, wiping unnoticed tears and licking a few drops of blood squeezed down Roy's thumb. Roy soon feels lightheaded and crawls back to his own bed.

In the morning, the alchemist unwraps his hand and bathes it a little water. Roy frowns, looking at the healed skin… it's a little pink, and he can sense its thin enough that he could rip it off with a swipe of his fingernail, but it holds his bone where it should be, and Roy uses it for the day, watching the flames arch out over the bland desert landscape. When he looks over, there's the alchemist, running his scarred palms over anything that comes in his path. His eyes cloud and he touches another solder, Roy tries not to look as the wretched man detonates.

For days after that, Roy ignores his injuries, taking the worst of them to Marcoh and hiding those bandages from his bunkmate. He doesn't like to ask Marcoh for help… he just doesn't know how to help the pain. And his bandages are all wrong. These bandages are not white, they're red… idly, Roy wonders why they aren't white anymore… and why the alchemist's bandages are always white. He hides his hand beneath the blankets at night, unable to admit that perhaps he should show it to him… skin isn't supposed to bubble. He opens his mouth to speak, but the alchemist is looking at him, so he shuts it again, muttering a simple good night. Good Night. He rubs the wound and promises himself he will ask about it in the morning. Finally the pain subsides and he sleeps.

But something, fear, shame or pride, refuses to allow him to show it. The skin continues to bubble, turning dry from the desert sun and bursting. it's a bang that the alchemist would be proud of. Soon its too serious to remain here, and Marcoh bandages it with his dull wraps that turn red, and he is sent home. And he whimpers at night when he happens to brush it. Slowly the injury heals, but cold nights and unusually hot days make it flair up and hurt.

Less than a week after he was discharged, he gets news that the insane alchemist was executed for killing his own men… he wonders if he should have testified. He wouldn't have anyway. He carefully clips around the obituary and execution announcement. He reads the last words, and shivers when he's mentioned by name. Then he pastes them gently into the scrap book, alongside four coveted pictures of him with the rest of the brigade. His gold eyes contrast so sharply with the black, blues and browns of the rest of the solders, even his expression is too unusual. He has that odd half smile, his eyes barely lidded, standing out against the exaggerated grins and scowls that everyone else wears.

Roy lifts the photos to his nose, and swears he can smell the herbs scent, on tattooed palms. 


	12. A ride to the doctor TRISHA!

Trisha could never say the military did nothing for her, or to be exact, the military she grew up with did… If the boys needed medical attention, or she needed to go to a different town, a simple phone call brought that beat up old car down the dirt road, Kimblee's ponytail trailing out the passenger window. Kimblee never drove, she noticed, and she knew he could, he had driven his father's truck back and forth since he was seven, and, in Risembool, old enough to drive. Nevertheless, always, there was another solder driving, while Kimblee directed him, and stroked the black silk hair of the child that sat there in the middle of the seat. Trisha always brought the child something from the house, usually a home made sweet or something like it, because Kimblee wouldn't take anything in return, and here, you always returned favors.

Kimblee had grown up, just two houses down, and Trisha could remember the sight of him, his hair always a little too long to be respectable, and full of bits of hay and chaff. He was too serious when he was young, always intent on whatever he was doing, his hands usually gloved, even when there was no work to be done… of course, if there was no work at his father's farm, he would be at someone else's, quietly doing the chores they didn't want to do, and would leave the owners, both appreciative, and wondering how the hell they could repay him for chopping their firewood every day.

Trisha slid into the back seat, gently bouncing a sleepy Alphonse and tugging Edward so he wouldn't scratch at his bumps. Chicken pox, she was sure it was, but she'd never seen a case that lasted so long, or that no one else seemed to catch. She watched the person driving today slowly back out of the road, careful not to drive over her garden, and then start to drive out of the town. He was thin, and very pale, from the stars on hic coat, Trisha would guess he was at least the same rank as Zolf, if not higher, and she wondered how he always managed to be there, no matter where he was…. wasn't he ever AWOL?

Edward was trying to scratch again, and she gently restrained him, waking up Al, who started to wail. Kimblee laughed a little, and the driver rolled his eyes. She patted Al, until he went back to sleeping, and the little boy in the front turned around to peer at them. He had Zolf's amazingly golden eyes, and reached out to touch Edward's cheek, amazed by the color that they shared, when in every other way, they were different. Trisha smiled and patted Andrew's hair.

All too soon, the ride was over… and Trisha climbed out, attempting to hand Kimblee a 100 cenz note, but he waved it away, and kissed her cheek. She sighed as she walked into the doctor's office. She discovered that Edward was allergic to milk, and his 'chicken pox' was hives. Not that that surprised her, but it should have caused some sort of reaction…. However, there was only one thing on her mind.

Her stepson never ceased to confuse her. 


	13. On the gun

This is the part when you start to get afraid, when you start to wonder what's going to happen. This is the reality of a cold gun barrel pressed to the back of your head, and a low pitched voice urging you out of your hard, brutal cot, the hand on your bare arm that feels too cold, and that chilling moment when you try to turn around, and are rewarded with a swift blow… raining white stars across your eyes. This is that cold day when you have to report to the medics, when you have to lie back and let them prod your body, and you smile and lie about your bruises, and you nearly cry when they believe it.

This is the night you promised yourself you wouldn't remember, and you went out into the desert, laughing until the tears felt as far away as they could be, and you rejoiced in the deaths that came from your hands. You blew away them all, women, children, and the boy who thought he was a man, the only one you left alive, whose life was saved by the brother he hated and loved more than life. This is the heat of the rampant terror that you could cause, this is it. This is the raw pleasure that coursed through you, when the images of that hand over your mouth, and that hand on your belt fade in the glow of flaming sand.

This is the morning, that they drag you out of your cold holding cell, and slap you awake. This is the feeling of comfortable indifference as they name off your crimes, and that giggling moment when you realize you didn't notice the comrades among the seas of his face. This is the crack, as the gavel comes down, sealing your fate to stand before a squad of your own men, and be shot. And you laugh…. How you laugh. Its pure joy standing there, knowing he can't touch you…. But his smile comes to you, from the benches before the stand. And your laughter dies in your throat.

This is that day, after nine years of the same walls, that you hear the explosions, and despite the pain in your back, and the horrible chills in your bones, you smile. it's the first smile you've had in years, and it hurts your face in a strangely good way. The sound takes you back, back to the night you sacrificed your freedom to the power that flowed from your hands, and when they lead you out of your cell, you decide that its time to test yourself against the real world again. And you can't wait. The prisoner detonates with a soothing blast of hot air, and a light spray of blood… you've gotten rusty, and you remind yourself you need to practice until you can set them off without a spray again. it's a most delightful chore.

But nothing can be perfect, and This is that cold evening, when you hear the cock of a gun, and look up at a face that haunts your dreams. You smile as he invites you back to the military, you laugh when he promises to make arrangements. Revenge will be perfect, because this is the part where he trusts you… next act, betrayal.


	14. A ghost

Fuery quietly walked down the lane, the temporary base seemed very quiet, and he had heard weird rumors about a ghost… hence his fear. Of course, when he tried to warm Mustang about the ghost, he had gotten a weird look and been assigned patrol… because the colonel was such a kind understanding person. He shivered a little… the desert heat was starting to dissipate with the sunset, and he could hear something howling remotely out in the distance. He held his lamp a little higher and kept walking. Somewhere behind him, he could hear footsteps.

He turned, shining his light, but didn't see anything. He sighed and turned back around, nearly barreling into a tall solder. Fuery started to apologize before looking up into the person's face… the words died in his throat. The face was drawn and pale, the eyes a soft, smoldering gold, and Fuery felt like he was going to kill mustang, because if this wasn't a ghost, he couldn't be sure what was.

"Well hello." Kimblee said smoothly.


	15. Shame

For some reason it always happened. No matter how many whispered "never again"s, no matter how few words, it happened, and Alex hated it.

During the day, hating him was so easy, when the dying screamed, and the children were running away, trying to escape a golden-eyed death… yes, during the day, it was easy.

But at night, it became harder. At night, he was soft and beautiful and pale… At night, his gold mixed with the moon's silver, and he was a silent, fallen god. And it was then that the moon claimed him, that Alex claimed him too.

Alex wasn't gay, of course. Love of women was had been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations, and he was no different. But so had a love of beauty, and yes, he was beautiful at night. When the sun set to sleep, and the moon poured down on him, he was perfect. As he undressed, his back was a slope of cold marble, accented, no marred by long scars and tense, jutting ribs and spine. From behind, a tapered waist, and long, loose hair gave him a soft, tender shape.

And when they were alone, it was impossible to hate the poured wax face that hissed and writhed and cursed, even as hips so narrow Alex's fingers touched, began to rise and fall.

Alex gave it his best effort, knocking his fist across the wax, griping the marble until it threatened to shatter, but somehow the cries, muffled in a sweat soaked shoulder, and the threats of detonation that were traced with tears from silver and gold eyes just made it so much better.

So Alex hated him by day, and coveted him by night, taking chances on crowded battlefields to whisper into his ear, watching the palms glow and shine. It was a fitting compromise.

And, as the war ended, Alex wondered what made some alchemists criminals, some insane, and some heroes. He wondered at the trial, where he was so achingly thin, his hands nearly broken by heavy wooden stocks, and his hair uncombed and wild on his shoulders. He wondered when his father praised his medals, and he polished them each week with utter, crippling shame.

He comforted himself after the execution with the promise he never had to detest perfect gold eyes and beautiful marble hands again.

He never knew he was lying.


	16. Birth MPreg

Greed nearly purred, watching Kimblee straining, and hissing, trying to stay still while Marta clumsily sliced at his abdomen, trying to cut thinly enough not to touch the thing squirming inside, but deeply enough to free it. Greed crouched down to kiss Kimblee's sweating face, and was reassured when the alchemist attempted to bite him… he would be fine. Gently, Greed stroked the top of the bloody head looking at him from the incision, and grinned at Kimblee, who was obviously in pain, but seemed just as interested as greed, trying to sit up a little without moving his stomach to see what Marta was intent on removing.

Greed grinned when he saw a tiny face emerge, and licked a smear of Kimblee's blood from his fingers, wondering if it was a girl or a boy. Personally, he would be happy for either… this was amazing, he knew that. He had always assumed Sins couldn't breed, who knew that all you needed was a very angry alchemist and several weeks of uninterrupted (practically) sex? He watched, and wondered if it was something about Kimblee…. His explosive personality maybe? Perhaps killing so many people had given him the ability to produce life?

Greed didn't care, really, he gently freed an arm for the child, and admired the tiny, blood soaked fingers. Kimblee was still cursing, and didn't seem phased, but he was grinning, like a feral dog. Greed hoped he wasn't wondering how easily newborns detonate. Greed prayed that Kimblee, as an alchemist would find this child amazing and unique, not just another bomb…. But also hoped that interest wouldn't include finding out how it worked….

He watched Marta making other cuts, and finally was able to gently lift the child out…. He didn't even know he could be this careful and gentle, but for some reason, he had an extraordinary sense of pride and amazement… and something else… that odd feeling Kimblee himself has inspired upon first glance, not quite pity, more… a more protective feeling, like that should always belong to him.

And as Greed watched Marta clean the infant, and received her, his arms open and ready, he looked down at Kimblee, who was smoking a cigarette and grinning, and knew that just maybe, this was what he truly wanted…

That feeling lasted about ten minutes, before he was purring to Kimblee…

"More?"


	17. When he was

Sometimes, Roy admitted to himself, he was beautiful. He was beautiful in Ishbal… during the war, when he wore his hair tightly tied and his uniform as infrequently as possible…. He had been something beautiful then, all long angles and flashing golden eyes. He had been deadly, cruel, and not entirely sane, but he was breathtakingly beautiful, and Roy had spent a few nights laying atop him, holding his tattooed palms tight against the bed and listening to him laugh… he had been the only person Roy ever met that laughed when he had sex, and Roy now knew there was only room or one person who did so in his life…. He had broken up with a girl once, because her laughter was too close to his. She wasn't particularly beautiful.

Sometimes, Roy thought, he was heartbreaking. Despite knowing his guilt, and even being more than glad to testify against him, he had been deeply scarred by the events of the trial, especially seeing the change, from wild beauty to an almost terrifyingly thin, weak creature in dirty green, restrained and deeply drugged. Somehow, there was something utterly obscene about all of it, like a falcon with broken wings so it would sit on a perch in a zoo. And Roy tried to forget this image, pushing it from his mind when he could, screaming silently to the ceilings when it stuck. And yes, even knowing the man was dead, a well deserved execution by firing squad, he still felt a little heartbroken when the broken, drugged image returned to his mind.

Sometimes, Roy thought he was terrifying. He had been more than such when Roy had dreamt of him on those nights that the pills and drink did not good. Or when during the day he would look at his beat friend and suddenly see a startlingly similar face on his body. He would turn away fro Maes, and he could swallow more pills, but somehow, once the vision started, he would have to see it through. He would find a place to be alone, and he could see thin, fragile hands, and a smiling face, whispering to him that he wasn't done yet…. That Roy wouldn't be free, not so long as his memory could grasp him from beyond the grave.

And sometimes….. Just sometimes… He could be surprising. Just when had thought he knew everything about his roommate, Kimblee had left the tent in the night, and destroyed the guards around the camp, then blown up six high officers that tried to control him. Roy had watched in horror, at the carnage then moved into action…. But he couldn't help be chastised by the startled betrayal on the killer's face…. Kimblee was beautiful, heartbreaking, and terrifying all in one in the moment…. And he was again, as he removed a white china mask, and grinned at him, years later, many nightmares later, on a train to a place, that was too hot… and too much like Ishbal.

And when he heard Kimblee was dead… he couldn't help looking over his shoulder. He was sure, someday; he would turn around to laughter.


	18. Cough

Kimblee slowly stroked a cat that had wandered into the was upstairs with another of the bored women that flocked to the bar, and the chimera had gone to sleep.

"Are you still awake?" A voice asked behind him, and before he could answer, Greed had settled himself onto a stool beside him. "You really should sleep more... I like you best at top of your form." He purred, eying Kimblee's hands. Kimblee flexed a hand and watched the cat wander down to the other end of the bar. Greed took the hand, examining it. "Pretty."

This statement made Kimblee laugh, and then start to cough. The long incarceration had weakened his immune system, and a few days of freedom had given him a cough bad enough to bring stars in front of his eyes. He finally caught his breath, in time to barely dodge Greed trying to spoon feed him something from a mug. "Ugh. Get away." he hissed, standing up to walk away. Greed just stirred the mug, eying Kimblee slowly. Kimblee got a chill, and went to walk away. Greed crept after him. Kimblee quickened his pace up the stairs, and Greed (and the mug) followed.

"It's just honey and lemon... it'll help your throat!" Greed insisted. Kimblee shook his head.

"No. I don't need it." Kimblee said and went into his room, locking the door. He felt a bit less stressed and started undressing for bed. Somehow, it didn;t occour to him that Greed, as owner of Devils Nest, did indeed have a KEY to the door. So, as he was drifting off, he felt a cold hand trying to open his jaw. His eyes shot open, and he pressed a hand against greed's stomach, just to xcome to the annoying conclusion that Greed was shielded, and would yeild a quite unsatisfying sort of boom.

"Come on, Crimson... Drink the tea. Its good for you." Greed cajoled, his voice vibrating softly from inside the fanged mouth. Kimblee glared and blew him up anyway for good measure. In his less that stellar shape, he forget the mug, and so, the explosion sent warm, sticky liquid all over the walls (and Kimblee.)

Kimblee wandered out of the room, towards a bathroom, cursing softly at Greed's odd urges. He was soon showering, still grousing over the unwelcome annointment. His hair had been washed just yesterday, what bad luck to have to clean it again so soon. "If my hair gets ragged, I'll kill you!" He yelled out the door to Greed, who was reforming his skull at the time. The only answer forthcomming was a sickly, wet groan. Kimblee shivered a little under the water. "Sexy." He called back. The wet groan almost sounded proud.

By the time Kimblee got out of the shower and dry, Greed was back, this time with a pink mug. Kimblee turned on his heel to walk away. Greed growled. "I'm just trying to help. You aren't good to me sickly!" Kimblee seethed and turned around, lunging for Greed's throat.

"I am not sick!" He hissed, but Greed dodged and Kimblee ended up coughing for a few minutes while catching his balance.

"Yes you are, you son-of-a-bitch!" Greed said irritably.

"You knew Mama?" Kimblee said curiously. Greed twiched for a monet, while Kimblee ran past him, making him drop the mug. It shattered and Greed growled, heading downstairs for mug three and a new plan.

Kimblee took the reprieve to climb into the attic and hide inside a cardboard box. For the life of him, he couldn't remember why he didn't want the tea, but somehow the "game" made his insomnia that must less cripplingly boring. Greed poked his head up into the attic after about fifteen minutes.

"Crimson? Crimson?" He called, and Kimblee stayed silent... until the dust in the air got him. He coughing fit left him a little limp, and Greed lifted him out like a child, balancing the maug carefully on a crate nearby.

"Come on... Its good for you, I even put a little gin in... you like gin." Kimblee rolled his eyes.

"I'm not..." He was cut off from his claims of excellent health by annother bone wrenching cough, and Greed nodded knowingly. Kimblee finally relented and swallowed the mixture. Greed then threw him over his shoulder and took off towards the bedroom.

"I cleaned up the room." He offered. Kimblee rolled his eyes. "Thank you Mother."

Greed grinned. "You calling me a bitch?" Kimblee smirked.

"Not yet. Let's wait and see what this tea does first..."


	19. Healing Continued Cough

((Totally dedicated to xxdarknessxfallsxx. Because she sent me an awesome review, and I just luvvles her to death.

BTW: I will dedicate chapters to people that send me awesome reviews... So just remember that great reviews make me drag my lazy bum to the keyboard to dedicate the write a chappie WORTHY of dedication... hinthinthint!))

Kimblee sipped at a mug of lemon tea, having decided that now that Greed wasn't awake to see him "surrender" to the Homunculus's demands that he be "medicated." The cat had taken up residence in the bar, earning the name of "Sulphur", partially for its yellow color, partially because it really ticked off Marta, and Kimblee delighted in doing just that.

The cat began to purr loudly, the vibrations traveling into his seals, and for a brief moment, he considered detonating it, but the urge passed easily, so he just smiled softly and kept petting. 'A marvelous life, I have.' he thought. 'I'm blessed, I suppose.' He lifted his gaze to stare out the dirty window behind the door. A tired man was struggling home, and Kimblee wondered what he was going home to for a bit.

He stood up, walking behind the bar to seek out something salty to counteract the sweet-sour taste of the tea. His throat had stopped aching, so that was something. He came back to the bar with a bag of some sort of roasted seeds, and found greed had taken up an adjacent stool. He growled, but Greed didn't take the clue and just grinned at him.

"Up again, oh sleepless one?" He cooed, faux-romanticly. Kimblee snorted and sat down, pouring some of the mixture into a bowl and nibbling at a handful. "You know, maybe if you are really sweet to me, I could do something unpleasent to those guards from the prison..." Greed said, hinting about the "sweet" expectations, with no semblance of subtly.

"You mean, like going up to them in the middle of the night and prattling on about uninteresting subject?" Kimblee asked. Greed failed to take the hint.

"No, I meant like breaking their limbs with a crowbar." He said innocently. Kimblee chuckled softly.

"I hold nothing against them." He admitted. "No anger or anything. I had my fun, and i was prepared to spend the rest of my life locked up... the war was well worth it." He swirled the tea, adding another splash of gin. "Though, I was rather disappointed by my reprieve... I killed eight officers, the LEAST they could do was offer me the fun of dying my firing squad, don't you think?" He looked at Greed.

Greed rubbed his head, face contorted with utter confussion, but soon enough he grinned again. "You are warped. Completely off your rocker. But you're also really pretty, so I'll probably keep you." He stretched. "Firing Squads are fun. Painful, but in that sudden, strange way that makes you high. But you wouldn't come back, so what fun would it be?"

"Death is no object. I told you, I've had more fun in the last twenty-eight years of life than most draw from their entire miserable life." Kimblee said, stroking Sulphur's fur.

"You're twenty-eight? Wow. You have the body of a prepubsecent girl!" Greed said cheerfully. Kimblee twitched and detonated him without another thought. The cat jumped at the spray of gore, and ran off to clean herself (and quite possibly think nasty thoughts about both of them for dirtying her, because she after all, is a cat and thought both of them should have been fawning over her superiorness.)

When Greed reformed, Kimblee gave him a distainful look. "I am not a woman, nor a girl." He said, taking a long drink of his tea. Greed sat back on the stool.

"That sort of death is unsettling you know?" He complained. "Completely unnatural. Nothing seems to fit where it should when you do that..." He snatched a stone out of Kimblee's hand. "And that's mine, thief." Kimblee just looked vaugly amused.

"Unnatural? And having your skull removed my a hammer is natural?"

"Well, more so that THAT." He said, frowning. "Be nicer to me. I deserve it." Kimblee snorted, and Greed gave another long stretch to realign his joints. "So... Did you blow them all up... like that i mean, where everything is destroyed?"

"No." Kimblee answered. "Only if I was using them to destroy something else. Usually I started small... a hand, or maybe an eye. Something awful so I could hear them scream." He emptied the mug and Greed got down the tea tin to make another mug. Kimblee briefly considered arguing, but decided against it. Greed had found a subject he quite liked to discuss.

"An eye? That sounds brutal." Greed said thoughtfully. "Why an eye?"

"Shock. Not to them, any body part causes shock to the victim... but those desert people put a lot of immportance on the eyes... windows to the soul and all that jazz. The blood and gore would amke them all freeze, and it made them easier to pick off." He took the new mug. "Plus, its kinda funny... they have no depth perception then, and run into a lot of things trying to escape." He grinned and Greed shivered, but grinned back.

"Sick. You are truely sick." He sat back down. "Tell me more."

"Another night." Kimblee promised. He stood up, and wandered off to bed.


	20. Traitor (Birth Cont)

(A/N: For lluviabrillante. Because despite my lack of ambition lately, getting a review on a three year old(six if you count from my first "chapter") story makes me want to please whoever sent it. I am kinda a whore that way. ;) Anyway, I decided to continue (kinda) "Birth" since you liked it.

Hope you enjoy it, if you review and leave a pairing you like, I will (try) to write you another. Because of your reviews, I watched a few episodes and I think I've been re-inspired. :D)

It was late... too late. Kimblee paced the motel room, watching the movements down below the window. Traitor, the word played across his mind, sometimes trying to slip out from his lips, never managing to quite escape his mind. Going with Archer was a willing decision, but he still wasn't sure just why he had chosen it. On the bed behind him he heard a soft squeak of springs and he turned in time to catch the tiny creature on the bed sitting up and looking at him. In the dark its ruby eyes followed his movements and he sat on the edge of the bed, pushing stringy, fine curls out of its eyes. It grasped his hand and guided one of the alchemist's fingers to its lips, first sucking then trying to cut a bumpy, prickling tooth against it. Kimblee sighed, using his free hand to stroke the soft white cheek.

Traitor. The word was always on his mind. Greed had been kind to him, had offered him a place in a world that gave him up long ago. Had taken a murderer and made him into a father.

Or mother, he reminded himself. Technically. Kimblee tried to work up some rage over the incident, tried to use it to justify his betrayal. But he found it to be tiring, and the train ride had worn him out terribly. It occurred to him that he had never needed to justify anything to himself before. The child-thing was looking at him again, before making a pitiful face and a tiny whimper. Without conscious understanding, Kimblee picked up a crumpled but clean cloth diaper off the floor and changed it, it's eyes never leaving his face.

"You're half an orphan." He told the thing and it cocked its head to the side. Kimblee wasn't sure it understood so he spoke again. "He's dead. Gone." He said slowly, then stopped, realizing he was attempting to taunt his own child. "You're a monster." He said after a moment.

"Gets it from you." Someone said behind him, from the door. Kimblee stood and spun, expecting tinted glasses and stale cigarette smoke. Instead he found Archer.

"Yeah." He grunted, sitting back down. "Did you find one?" Archer raised an eyebrow.

"Of course. But why? You don't like motherhood." The Lt. Colonel drew the last word out a bit, leaving it hanging in the air. He watched Kimblee's face for any sign of shame. None showed.

"I was raised to do what's best for a child."

"For a monster."

"Yes." Kimblee lifted the child-thing and wrapped it in a blanket. "If this is a trick, if you turn her over to a lab, I will destroy you. And it doesn't have to be quick." He said slowly, Archer shivered at the tone.

"Its my own sister." Archer assured him, taking it. Kimblee watched him leave with it and turned from the window.

"Traitor." He whispered.


End file.
